


Only the Unlucky of Us Get to Do It

by callmejude



Series: Only the Unlucky [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Communication Failure, Gender Dysphoria, Growing Up, Heartbreak, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Crossdressing, Loss of Identity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 00:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: They're too old to play, now.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Series: Only the Unlucky [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1447348
Comments: 23
Kudos: 76





	Only the Unlucky of Us Get to Do It

It’s late in the night of Jon’s sixteenth nameday when he digs Sansa’s gown out from under his bed, unwraps it from the tattered wool blanket, and realizes, for the first time, that it no longer fits.

Horrified — _humiliated_ — Jon falls to tears in his bedchamber, gathering the silk into a ball at his chest. Four months have passed since Theon took him to the godswood and complied with Jon’s pathetic fantasy to be treated as a maiden, but they have not spoken once since Theon walked with him back from the stables to the castle, Jon once again clad in his doublet and breeches as he should be. They had not spoken then, either — instead let the words Jon had begged for remain hanging heavy and unspoken between them. For four months, Jon has pretended it has not bothered him.

Now, he fears that he will not be able to bear it. It has always been there, this past year, the gown, carefully hidden away but within reach. Now, as Jon sits back on his bed struggling to pull the tense silk over his broadened chest, it is hopeless. He hasn’t tried to wear it since Theon stole him away by horseback into the godswood. His skin felt too rough for gentle silk. His heart would thud in his chest at the mere thought.

But Jon had not thought it would be lost to him so quickly. If he’d known, he would’ve put it on every night just to stand in front of the mirror and pretend. That had been enough, in the beginning. It could still be enough, now, but Jon will never know. It’s not fair. All his usual garments seemed to fit the same as always.

Peeling the dress off of him, Jon’s skin itches as he lets it drop to the floor. He rolls his fingers over the gooseflesh on his arms, but it does nothing. Even with the dress pooled at his feet, Jon cannot forget the feeling on his skin. The too-tight silk stretching farther than it could, threatening to tear.

He is not sure why it hurts so deeply, not being able to wear this garment that he’d not at all wanted to wear in the first place. He doesn’t understand why the thought of never wearing it again brings tears to his eyes. 

Still, his heart feels heavy in his chest. He wonders briefly if heartbreak could shatter bones, could be something to die from. He is too scared to even think to ask the maester. Surely, if Jon were to ask, the old maester would know what he had been getting up too. The maester is a brilliant man.

Miserable, Jon lays the green gown over his bed, letting it lie flat on his wolfskins like a northern corpse. He wants to look at it, but feels as if he’s staring directly into a bright fire, as he does. Embarrassed, he fusses with the pleats of the skirt, fanning them out so that the corners stretch, reaching for the edges of his featherbed. He tugs the sleeves straight down at the sides. It had never quite fit him, in the arms. Too short. Too slim. The dainty lace on the cuffs always ended too high up his wrists. This gown had never been for him. Stolen from his sister, without her ever knowing. The sort of thing perverted little boys do. 

He dutifully laces up the bodice as if dressing an invisible body. With nothing inside the laces pull tighter than they ever did over Jon’s chest. This silly gown wasn’t meant to be his. So what right does he have to mourn its loss, then?

Still, Jon folds it up as neatly as he can and tucks it under his pillow. He leaves the tattered wool blanket on the floor as he bundles underneath his furs and falls asleep, one hand curled under his head to brush his fingers over watery silk.

_“There you are, my little princess,” Theon says with a smile, cupping Jon’s cheek. “You fretted over nothing. It fits you just fine.”_

_When Jon looks down, he sees Theon is right, the dress seems to fit him better now than it ever has. Grinning, Jon looks back to Theon, his green eyes sparkling as they stare down at Jon, the prize he’s claimed as his own._

_Standing on his toes, Jon reaches for a kiss, but as Theon leans down, his face warps and changes, hair falling lank and red down his back. Jon steps back, bewildered as Sansa stands in front of him, expression pinched and sour as it is when her mother is watching._

_“Is that my dress?” she snaps in a voice too sharp, unlike her. More like Lady Catelyn. “Is that where it had gone? I looked for it for ages. Should’ve known I’d find it on you. Bastards all turn out the same.”_

_“We don’t,” Jon tries, but his voice is hoarse and small. “I’m — I’m not. I hadn’t…”_

_“What have you done to it?” Sansa asks then, “It’s filthy. What have you done to my dress?”_

_Tears sting hot on Jon’s face. He can’t bear to look down again. Without seeing, he knows that suddenly the dirt and stains stand out on the silk more now than they ever have. “N— nothing —”_

_“Give it back,” Sansa hisses, snatching his arm in a vice-like grip, “you’ve had your fun, you filthy rat.”_

_“Let— let me go,” Jon tries, “I’ll give it back to you, I swear it, just — just let go before…”_

_The fabric gives under Sansa’s fingers, tearing away with a deafening _rip._ Horrified, Jon reaches for the handful of silk in Sansa’s hold, but she jerks away from him, eyes like ice._

_“Look what you’ve done,” she snarls at him. “Just wait until I tell Father.”_

Bolting upright from his bed, Jon’s heartbeat thunders, so loud he cannot hear his own breathing over it. A cold sweat runs down his scalp. He shoves his bedding aside to find the green gown still folded neatly under his cushions. The relief that washes over him is strange and cold. At least it had fit, in the dream.

He gets to his feet. He cannot bear to be alone, any longer. Stuffing the gown back under this blankets, Jon turns and heads for Theon’s room.

The hour of the night doesn’t occur to Jon until he is already knocking his fist against Theon’s door, shuddering to try and hold back his tears. When Theon opens his door it takes a moment for him to see Jon, and he scowls, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Snow? It’s the middle of the damned night. What are you — what’s the matter with you?”

He notices Jon’s tears, he must, because his face falls, and the furious tone of his voice lessens before he’s even finished the sentence. Jon feels pitiful, and the meager hold he has on himself crumbles with a loud, shuddering breath.

“It — it doesn’t fit. I can’t get it to — to fit any longer.”

Cocking his head, Theon asks blearily, “What’re you on about?”

Has it really been so long since they took to the godswood? Has Theon forgotten everything? Jon drags a hand over his face, tears smearing over his fingers.

“My — the — Sansa’s dress.” 

Theon’s eyes widen and his skin pales. Before Jon can say anything further he seizes Jon by the arm and tugs him into his room, shutting the door behind him. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but Jon lets out in a tearful rush, “It — it doesn’t fit me, now. I can’t — I can’t wear it anymore.”

“Is that all? Gods, Snow, that’s nothing to go mad over. You’d think someone had died, the way you’re bawling.”

“I can’t — I can’t have another. I’ll be caught, if I try and take one from Sansa, or another girl’s... and then the whole castle will know. It’ll— It won’t fit, besides. I’m — I’m just without, now.”

“That’s not so bad,” Theon tells him with a gamely shrug.

“Shut up!” Jon snaps, choking back a sob when Theon jolts away at the shout. “I… I was never meant to have it. I stole it. I stole it and now it — it doesn’t even fit.”

“It wouldn’t fit little Sansa anymore, either,” Theon points out, “little girl is growing like a weed, she is. She does not miss it.”

“But I stole it!” Jon repeats, heart clenching at the realization. He never quite let himself admit what a terrible thing it was to do to his little sister. He’s never stolen anything, before. “I stole it, and for what? It won’t even… won’t even fit me any longer.”

Theon doesn’t respond to that. His silence helps nothing, and Jon feels another sob bubble out of his throat as the memories of what he’s done with his little sister’s dress sink in once more.

“I — It’s not right. I wasn’t — why do I want it, anyway? Why do I let you — It’s not right. And I still have it, under — under my bedding. I can’t be rid of it. I… what can I do?”

Theon levels a pitying look at him. Jon can’t stand it, not from Theon. Theon has never pitied him. Theon has never pitied anyone. 

“You don’t — need it,” Theon says. “If — do you still want to lay with me? Is that it? The damn dress never fooled me into thinking you had a cunt instead of a cock.”

Jon’s not sure why that hurts to hear, especially after what Theon did to his cock in the godswood. Theon’s laugh fades uncomfortably, and instead he shrugs, making a face.

“Take a seat, Snow,” Theon offers with a gesture toward his desk. “I’ve got a wineskin stashed away. Have some. Calm your tears a bit.”

“No, I —” Jon starts, but Theon takes him by the elbow and leads him to his seat. Theon kneels beside his bed and produces a leather wineskin. 

Jon takes it, sloshing it slightly before taking a swig. It’s sweet, fruity, and Jon keeps the wineskin resting on his knees. 

Theon leans heavily against his desk and asks, “So, what’s happened? Why are you here in a state in the dead of night?”

Hiccupping, Jon takes another swig of wine. “I hadn’t thought to try it on again since…”

Too late, he realizes what he’s about to say, and lets his voice fade with embarrassment. It takes a moment for it to occur as well to Theon, who clears his throat and shifts awkwardly against his desk.

“Right.”

It’s hard to swallow. Does he think of that night the same way Jon does, or does he prefer not to? Looking down at the wineskin, Jon chews on his lip, humiliated at the memory of clinging to him, begging. _Tell me that I’m yours, tell me that you love me._ The thought causes him to flinch, and Jon swallows down another mouthful of wine.

Theon only stares at him. How long have they been sitting now in silence?

“I just wanted… just for — for my nameday. But it didn’t — it didn’t fit. And I couldn’t — I couldn’t…”

Silent, Theon watches him. Why is he being so quiet? He’s always talking. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever been around Theon this long without hearing him speak. But Jon cannot stand the quiet now, so he rambles. “I dreamed Sansa… I dreamed that Sansa found me. She found out and thought I was sick.”

And suddenly, Jon cannot hold his tears back any longer, and starts to weep. He cannot bring himself to relay the rest of the dream, Theon dressing him lovingly and calling Jon his princess. He cannot bear for Theon to know that. 

“I am, aren’t I? Sick. I don’t — I don’t want to be… but all bastards are the same. Filthy blood.” Furiously wiping his face, Jon takes a shuddering breath. “No — no girl wants a bastard. And I’m not — I’m not strong or handsome.”

He had been pretty, though, and Theon had wanted him. But now, there’s no gown to hide his broadening shoulders, no illusion of hips or breasts. He will not make Theon sons — he never would — but now there is no pretending. 

Sniffling, he wipes more tears from his eyes. “I’m not… no one wants me, as I am. I won’t ever please a wife, like — like this…”

Does he want to?

“Snow, come now…”

“Forgive me,” Jon manages, curling in on himself. “I know that the hour is late. I shouldn’t have come, but — but you were so... You were so kind to me, when — ”

“Shush, alright? Don’t cry, Snow. It’s no fun if I haven’t done it.”

His odd sweetness is disarming, and Jon laughs despite himself, soft and breathless. Looking proud, Theon grins, wiping Jon’s face dry. Craving the touch, Jon allows it, pretending for a moment that Theon still has him stolen away — kidnapped from his high tower. 

“It’s alright, Snow. Don’t cry like a child over a silly dress. No one will want you if you’re always in tears like this. If you’d like, I can take you to bed now.” Startled, Jon’s breath stops, and Theon gently takes the wineskin from Jon’s hand and sets it down on his desk. “There, is that it? Will that stop these tears of yours?”

Dazed, Jon agrees. He’s not sure that it will, but Theon’s eyes are so bright that Jon just wants to keep them looking at him. And Theon seems so willing and honest, that for a moment, Jon forgets there is no gown, he is not playing some role. 

Before Jon can think twice at all, Theon leans forward and pulls Jon into a kiss. 

It’s different than it had been before. Jon remembers their first kiss — his first ever kiss — hidden away in the broken tower, pressed against the crumbling stone as Theon claimed his mouth hungrily. It had tilted Jon’s vision and scorched him inside out. 

But now, Theon kisses him tender and soft. Like a knight kissing a maiden. Bowed low, Theon is neither taller nor shorter than Jon at this angle, and the kiss is level, even. An awkward swoop goes through Jon’s stomach, and he pulls away.

Oddly, Theon smiles at him. “How’s that?”

Swallowing, Jon bites his lip. Theon has got that proud little smirk on his face — the same one he’d had winking and flirting with Jon in his gown. 

“C’mon, now,” says Theon, sitting down on his own bed. “If that’s what troubles you, you needn’t fret. It’s most often done with nothing on at all, anyway, you know. No need to dress pretty for it. I told you as much, the gown hadn’t fooled me on you. I know what you’ve got underneath.”

Jon wishes he’d stop saying that, but can’t manage to say.

Fingers pull on Jon’s nightclothes, and for a moment Jon imagines it’s the soft green silk being drawn away. Perhaps to Theon, he still seems delicate, as soft, even without the dress. Perhaps they can still pretend.

But as his nightclothes fall away and cool air hits his skin, Jon shivers. Suddenly, he can’t recall a time that Theon has ever before seen his bare chest. Which is foolish, because he must have, bathing in the godswood springs or changing out of his practice armor. Shy, Jon crosses his arms over himself, covering what he can of his flat bare chest. A few dark hairs had grown in a few months ago. He knows that Theon must have seen before, but it is so different now, wrong. He can’t remember Theon seeing him undressed since this started — that first kiss in the broken tower. Jon had hidden behind the stairs to change, after they laid together in the godswood, too shy for Theon to see him after what they’d done. After what Jon had said. Had begged for.

Flinching, Jon takes a step back. 

Theon huffs, reaching for him. “Snow? Are you —” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Are you alright?” 

Nodding, Jon takes a breath and closes the distance between them again. He hadn’t meant to pull away. He wishes Theon would’ve chased after him. He would have, back at the godswood, or even the first time, in Jon’s room. Even their first kiss, Theon had robbed the breath from him. 

“Well, come on, then,” Theon urges, taking Jon’s arm again to tug him toward the bed. “Lay down with me.”

Shy, Jon crawls up onto Theon’s bed, unsure what to do once he’s perched on the furs. The only times they’ve done this, it had been wild and fierce; a flurry of touches and sweet words. Jon had not had to think about what to do next; it had just happened.

They sit staring at each other a moment before Theon chuckles. “Here,” he says with a grin, “I’ll start, shall I?”

Jon frowns. That had never been a question before. For a moment he feels teased, but then Theon leans forward and takes Jon’s mouth in a kiss, and Jon’s heart quickens in his chest. The kiss is sweet and slow, and Jon is swept into it, letting out a soft sigh as Theon breaks away to breathe.

“There you are,” Theon says in a low voice, “see? That’s better, isn’t it?”

Licking his lips, Jon nods. It still feels different, too gentle, unsure. But Theon is smiling at him, and Jon wants that. Wants Theon’s smile, his eyes on him. Swallowing, he manages, voice still hoarse with tears, “It’s — it’s better.”

“Good,” Theon whispers, bowing to kiss Jon’s neck. “Told you.”

When Jon shivers against the kiss, Theon folds over him, cradling Jon’s throat with long, gentle fingers. It’s so soft, tender and gentle. He’d been so different, before. Jon’s not sure what to think of it. Is this how he treats the girls in brothels? 

For a moment, Jon lets himself believe that it is, swept into the sweetness of Theon’s touch as his hand rolls down from his neck. The memory flutters through Jon’s mind — Theon’s hand resting at the bodice of Jon’s dress — but Theon’s hand does not stop at his chest now. Instead his archer calloused fingers skate along Jon’s skin until they find his cock, wrapping tight around it. With a startled gasp, Jon pulls back from the touch, feeling oddly shaken. Theon’s hands on him had felt so good before, when cloaked in silk. He’s unsure why it drops now in his stomach like a stone.

“I don’t — I don’t…” Jon squirms until Theon releases him, blinking down at him curiously for a moment. Swallowing, Jon manages, “I don’t want that.”

Narrowing his eyes, Theon nods, though he looks confused. “Alright,” he says awkwardly. “So, what —” 

For a breath, he hesitates, and then Jon watches him slide a finger into his mouth. Jon recalls Theon’s tongue sliding over his own fingers, and licks his lips at the memory. Too ashamed to want it again, he says nothing, his gaze dropping from Theon’s face.

“This?” Theon asks as he pulls his hand away, sliding the slick finger between Jon’s legs. 

When Jon sucks in a breath and nods, Theon smiles again. His eyes are bright, smile wide, and Jon lets himself forget that Theon never said the words that Jon begged him to say. As Theon works him open, Jon pines to hear Theon speak; to tell him how delicate he is, to call him his princess. But Theon says nothing, only pressing a kiss behind Jon’s ear. Why won’t he say anything?

Jon’s skin starts to feel tight, burning hot. Something feels wrong, frightening. Jon hadn’t ever been scared, before. But no one has looked at him, when he’s like this. Theon never looked at him once before the dress. Does Theon still want him, this way? Would anyone? It’s hard to focus on Theon’s hands, the way his long fingers pull him apart. Clenching his eyes shut he tries instead to remember the godswood, to go back there. 

_”Some struggle you put up, my lady.”_

Hands clamp over Jon’s ribs on either side and guide him over until the air hits his back. Jon’s eyes fly open at the change to see Theon underneath him, holding Jon astride his hips. He gasps, momentarily breathless, and Theon stares at him a moment before shifting to slide Jon slowly over his cock.

Hissing at the pain, Jon curls into himself. Had it hurt this much, before? Theon has never gone so slow, careful, as if he’s just as unsure as Jon is. He hears Theon say something, and one of his hands reach up to cup Jon’s cheek.

“There, how’s that?” Theon whispers, “Alright?”

Jon does not like being perched over Theon this way. Exposed. He feels ugly, freezing cold where the open air hits his skin. His chest too flat and shoulders too broad, graceless and indecent in the candlelight of Theon’s room. He shakes his head, face blooming red at the look on Theon’s face when he does.

“No, I — I don’t like this,” Jon says softly. He can’t pinpoint why, can’t explain what it is that feels so wrong now, stripped nude for Theon to see so fully. It feels more like a costume than Sansa’s dress, to have nothing at all. False. He cannot be who he was for Theon in the godswood with his flesh bared this way. Ashamed, he simply settles on, “I’m — I’m cold.”

It at least relaxes Theon, who lets out a heavy breath and flips them over so that Jon’s back hits his wolfskins and crawls overtop him, shielding him like a blanket as he pushes back into him, still far more careful than Jon ever remembers. It burns through him, and Jon lets out a heavy breath through his nose. 

“There, Snow. Better?”

It’s better, but not enough. Theon still sees him as he is, bony and inelegant, sharp angles where the dress had hinted curves. Still has the mind to be careful, to ask. For Theon, this is nothing. Jon feels tears welling in his eyes, and shudders, trying not to blink and give way to Theon that he’s crying. Is he just ‘Snow’ now? Too lowborn now to be a princess. Too masculine to be a lady. He’d been pretty once, Theon had said so. Had it only been the gown? Will Jon never be pretty to him, now? Why won’t he speak as freely as he had before?

With a wet gasp, Jon asks breathlessly, “Am — am I… still pretty?”

Something crosses over Theon’s face that Jon hasn’t seen before; confused, almost hurt. He’s not given Jon that look before. He had always made it so clear that Jon was wanted, the last time. Rushed to answer Jon’s every plead, how willing Theon was assure him. But now, he just stares. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything at all, and Jon feels the tears he’d been holding back slip from the corners of his eyes into his hair. 

Helpless, he tries, “Please?”

It always looks so strange on Theon’s face, when he frowns. “Aye, Jon,” he says after a moment. “Of course you are. You’re so pretty.”

It had excited Theon, once. Enthralled him. He says it now as if the confession has broken his heart. Theon bows to kiss him, but it’s too gentle, a mockery, and Jon shoves at his chest.

“Don’t — don’t do that,” Jon says hoarsely as they break apart, “don’t pity me.”

“Snow, come on now…” He touches Jon’s hair, careful and and sweet, as if Jon is no more than an easily spooked rabbit. “It’s alright. What’re you weeping for?”

Jon had wept the first time, he remembers. Then, Theon had scoffed, unconcerned, unperturbed. What is wrong with Jon now, that his tears are so unsettling?

“Nothing,” Jon sniffles, shaking his head. “Don’t — don’t, please, just —” Jon begs, though he’s not sure what it is he wants Theon to do. Last time they were like this, Jon had been a princess. A highborn lady. Theon’s lady. Stolen away from a northern holdfast and taken as a prize. But this, Jon is not sure what this is. Now, he is no one, nothing. Just a bastard. There is no prize in a bastard.

“Jon —”

It had thrilled Jon before, to be called by his given name while thrown onto his back in a highborn lady’s silken clothes. By then, Theon had been wild with need, voice hoarse as their game dissolved around them. Into what, Jon doesn’t know. But now Theon’s voice is clear, solid and steady. Now, hearing his own name burns like an angry brand on his skin.

“Not yet,” Jon begs softly, “no please, not — not yet.”

“What?” Theon’s eyes are sharp as they peer down at him. “What’s the matter?”

The bewilderment is humiliating. He wishes Theon would just understand, would know what to call him, what to say. There was a time that Theon called Jon a princess, even when dressed in his doublet and breeches. His voice had been a soft little purr in Jon’s ear. Why can’t he know now? Why can’t he understand that Jon needs to hear it now? Is it that Theon cannot see it, now that Jon has admitted that the gown no longer fits? Now that the half-baked illusion of the skirts and silk are gone, Theon will never see anyone other than Jon Snow, where he stands.

“Please, am — am I —” Jon cannot manage asking again, but Theon remembers that at least, and he bends to press a kiss to Jon’s neck.

“Yes, you are. You’re so pretty, Snow. Prettiest little thing in the castle.”

His voice is so soft. Tender and pitying. Like a mother cooing over her children. It’s not how it was before, helpless rambling of how much Theon longed to steal him. To take him away and make Jon his own. Now, Theon says it like a promise, an assurance. As if Jon has withered with age since the last time they laid together. A bitter, tragic wife Theon feels obligated to flatter and fawn over.

Helpless, Jon tells himself that Theon must still want him, inviting Jon into his bed and planting kisses on his skin. But Theon will fuck anything, Jon knows. Fucks the boywhores same as tavern wenches. Jon had been a prize, when dressed in lush green silk. Nobleborn and enticing. Something special, kept safe from raiders in Theon’s arms. But Theon does not spin him any tales now, does not comment on how Jon is dainty or soft. This is a different sort of game, to Theon. One that Jon can play a part in all the same, even as the boorish bastard that he is. Pretty only as an afterthought. Had Jon never been delicate and dainty to him? Was it all just a funny game, never honest or real? Perhaps Theon never meant a word of it, all just a joke to take Jon into his bed.

“Are you still cold?” Theon’s voice cuts through Jon’s thoughts as he pulls his bed furs tighter around them. Jon only realizes he’s shivering as Theon drags his hand distractedly over his arm. “How’s that, warm enough?”

His kindness is infuriating, though Jon cannot understand why. All he wanted as a boy was kindness from others, Theon especially, cruel and callow boy that he was. But now it all feels teasing, wrong. Jon is too fragile to take seriously, too weepy to desire truly. Theon had never been so cautious with him as a lady; throwing him onto the moss and laying claim to him. Theon must only be so careful with things he does not truly wish to touch.

Once, Theon had argued against the idea of being a gentle prince, and Jon had known then it was true. It had been something sweet, when Jon was still Theon’s princess. But now, whispering and soft and wiping away Jon’s tears, Jon wishes Theon had been right. He hates this, this soft and tender prince like the ones in Sansa’s stories. Jon wants the sharp eyes and taunting smile of the ironborn again. 

Then, Jon had felt kept; stolen because he was wanted. Not by his father or his unknown mother or his family, but by a ravenous prince — not one promised to him, but one desperate to take him in his bed. Kept on his back to make a thousand sons.

“I want —” Jon starts, but shame strangles him, and he cannot finish. _I want to make you sons,_ he wishes he could say, but disgust swallows him at the thought. He’s rotted inside, Theon must feel it. He’ll never make princes. He’ll never be anything but a bastard. He is not worth the desire Theon showed him. 

A sob rips free of Jon’s throat, and Theon tries to pull away.

“_Fuck,_ Jon —”

He sounds frightened when words leave him now, and Jon shakes his head. “_No,_” Jon begs, grasping his hair, “no, please…”

For a moment, there is silence between them, and Jon can feel Theon shaking against him. He is cold and nervous, and it is because of Jon. What has he done? Shaking his head Jon tries to reassure Theon before he pulls away entirely. This is all Jon has now. It’s better than nothing, surely.

“Alright, alright, shh.” Theon says gently, voice dripping with condolence. He kisses Jon’s cheek, wet with tears. “It’s alright, truly, please don’t cry. What can I… what can I do that will stop your crying?”

“Stop it,” Jon snaps, balling his hand into a fist and slamming it as hard as he can into Theon’s chest. Theon grunts and sits back, startled. “Stop treating me like — like…”

Theon waits, eyes piercing. Jon struggles to catch a breath against his sobs, and finally Theon pushes, “Like what?”

_Like I’m just a man,_ Jon wants to say, _like a pitiful bastard._ He can’t bear to say it. Theon had offered to take him this way thinking it was the only thing Jon was worried of losing. What would he say, if he learned Jon cared more of being Theon’s princess than simply being his bedmate?

Involuntarily, the memory of lying tangled together in the godswood returns to mind, Jon begging for words Theon did not say. It had crushed him, then, even with the shield of the dress making him beautiful. Being denied now would ruin him. Tears run fresh from Jon’s eyes, and Theon leans close, brushing them away.

“Jon, enough, what’s the matter?” His lips are still turned slightly in a smile as he breathes Jon’s same air, but it looks off. Frightened. Jon is pitiful to him; disgusting, and he’s not even admitted to anything he truly wants. “I’ve never had someone weep so while in my bed.”

Sniffling, Jon shakes his head. He doubts such a thing, but cannot manage to say. Theon has stopped thrusting into him, instead moving delicate and soft. He pulls Jon upward, pulling him into his lap.

Jon pants, his breath catching. Theon had taken him this way in the godswood, as his lady. Theon kisses his hair. Again, it is too tender, too soft. Theon did not treat him so fragile, as a lady, as a princess.

Desperate, Jon whispers, “Harder, please. I want — I want it harder.”

To his horror, Theon scoffs. “Harder? Jon, you’re trembling like a leaf. You feel as if you’ll crumble in my hands.”

That had never been a worry before. Jon swallows another sob down angrily. That can’t be why. Jon had trembled the first time as well, held in Theon’s arms. Theon had said so. It had enticed him then, encouraged their game. What is different now?

Shaking his head, Jon grips the nightshirt on Theon’s chest. He knows Theon is looking at him, watching him, and the words fall slow and broken from Jon’s mouth.

“Please — please, Lord Greyjoy —”

Time freezes, and Jon’s throat swells tight with shame. When Jon looks up at him, Theon’s eyes are wide as they fall back to Jon’s face, and his mouth falls open, stunned silent.

He’s disgusted. He’s horrified. What has Jon done?

“Oh, gods, is that — that’s what you want?”

“No,” Jon snaps instantly, twisting away as Theon tries to touch him. Humiliation is like brittle glass tearing him open. This was foolish, stupid. He can’t bear to be here now. He can’t bear to see Theon’s face. To be touched. Seen. He thinks he might die of shame. He hits Theon’s chest with sharp knuckles once more. “Get off me.”

Theon does, but grabs Jon’s arm again when he struggles to his feet. “Wait, don’t — Snow listen! Don’t be upset…”

“Leave me alone!” Jon shouts, wrenching his arm from Theon’s grip as he struggles to step back into his nightclothes with trembling hands. “Don’t — don’t touch me.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Theon does not touch him again. “Jon, wait. It’s — it’s alright, we can — I had only thought...”

The thought of Theon pitying him enough to play along now is so mortifying that Jon claps his hands over his ears to drown out the rest of his words. 

Tears blurring his vision, Jon flees from Theon’s room, racing down the hall until he reaches his own door and slams it shut behind him.

Still, pitiful as ever, a part of Jon wishes Theon would follow him. He crumples fallen to tears beside his ironwood door, waiting to hear a curious knock on the other end. It never comes, and Jon lets his weeping grow louder, curled tight into a ball. Theon would’ve followed Jon before, clad in silks. _“I would give chase. Pursue you through the woods high and low.”_ But Jon is no longer his lady. No longer worth chasing.

As his sobs quiet after a time, Jon wonders what could possibly become of him, now. He cannot please a wife, this way. Moreso, he has no wish to. He has nothing to offer anyone. No name, no status. He cannot make sons. Bastards are good for nothing, Jon remembers. And deviant bastards, only less so. Wiping his eyes, his tantrum over, Jon gets to his feet.

Now that Theon has no want for him, fear settles in Jon’s bones. It won’t be a secret, any longer, the things Jon desires. Always so eager to share stories of girls with Robb, Jon wonders if perhaps he’s already hinted to his brother, the things they’ve done. Now that Jon has caused such a fuss in the middle of the night, he’s sure to spill to Robb what a sick pervert his bastard brother is. There will be no peace for him in Winterfell, now.

Curling up into his furs, he remembers his uncle living north as a brother in black. No one would have to know of Jon’s deviancy, if he were to join his Uncle Benjen at the Wall. All bastards are brothers, there. Perhaps that is all he has to give the realm, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Let's Fall in Love" by Mother Mother


End file.
